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09-27-2013, 10:03 PM
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They follow her trail of scorching brightness, to a place where the waters are still, silent blue, the grass thick and lush. The air is muggy and hot, sweet with the cloying scent of blossoming flowers. Reflections of clouds are pulled thin over the blue water, looking like snagged wool. Trees rustle, red sap dripping from the cracked, blackened bark. Up she swoops, to a low perch in one of the trees that appear, for all the world, to be bleeding. This tree is scorched and darkened permanently by her blazing feathers, a blackened husk surrounded by life. The phoenix, so-called Fire by Oliver, awaits patiently as they trail behind, the blind girl arduously and doggedly following the rough-and-tumble stallion. What an unlikely pair they make; one slender, lithe, all silver grace, the other a hulking brute of a stallion. As they approach near, she clears her throat, running a golden beak through her scarlet and crimson feathers. Ash drifts on the lightest of breezes, the stench of smoke permeating the air. "Today is the day you have been foretold to die." She announces in her mellifluous tones; there is no regret in her eyes, no pity, no apology, only the cold reality bearing down on the two of them. "Oliver. You kill Rasta, by 'accident', upon entering an argument with her. You sink so low as to hamstring a blind mare, leaving her crippled. Within a few minutes, she has bled herself dry. And it appears you will atone for your heinous crime, pegasus; you will be chased by a patrol of pegasus vagabonds later, towards this evening. These pegasi will drive you into a storm, where lightning will strike you and strip you of your flesh. You will perish." She pauses, delicately re-arranging her crimson feathers. "I can change your futures, but both of you will have to prove yourselves worthy. Tell me your darkest secret and a crime you have kept hidden." She begins to burn brighter. The clouds begin to obscure the sky, turning dark gray. Audible wing-beats can be heard, invisible warriors whipping the grass to a frenzy beneath their wings. The phoenix shrieks in alarm, the wind peeling her from her perch. Slowly she is dragged back, even as she fights to come forward desperately. "Quickly!" She shouts, eyes searching for them as darkness begins to settle. "Save me, before all hope is lost!" She hovers four feet above ground, about twenty feet from the pair of horses. The wind beings, indistinct, flickering shapes that take place in the corner of the eyes and whisper in Rasta's ears, keen and cry. They want to tear the phoenix away, shred any hope for survival the poor warriors might have. How could they save her, when she burns anything she touches? Do you even believe her? Why is the wind angry over a phoenix meddling in the affairs of mundane, mortal horses? |
